True Heros Never Die
by CelticBarKeep
Summary: One Shot, ProHBP. Two people come to certain realizations about life and death, past, present, and future but it all comes a little to late. Warning: I have had my friend break down at the lunch table when I had them read this.


I wrote this before the Half Blood Prince. I have poured a lot of myself into this short, and as my friends have told me, tragic story of my favorite two characters. I hope that u all enjoy and reviews will be greatly welcomed.

Phantom of the Playhouse

"I do not own any of JK fantastic work, though I must admit, I wish I did."

The liquid that gives life and is shared by every human and creature alike, crimson in color, tick and potent, flooded the ground, seeping into the ancient dirt where two bodies lay. One body is cold, limp, and immobile. The other is weak, young, and gasping through the blood that was coming up to flood his mouth much as it did from his side where the Curse had impaled him. Now, the only difference between the two was one was holding on to life, barley, afraid of what he feared most in the world would be fulfilled.

Dying alone.

With nothing to do but dwell on the pain and the life force that was flowing helplessly from his body, his mind wandered.

He had done what was destend for him, but with a different ending than he had wanted. Dying alone, with no one. His two best friend were alive, for that he could be thankful, but not by his side. The person who had pushed him into this war, against his will and his wishes, would have been a comfort. He would be something that was real, solid, strong. He hated Dumbledore, yes, always pushing him for things he was not capable of, pushing him to grow up before he had ever started being young, pushing him to live a unloved life with people who would and could not being to understand him. He could not hate his relatives for that, though. They were pushed just as much as he when he was left on their doorstep. Dumbledore had proceeded to gain and break his trust time and time again.

His mind slips more and as his thoughts wonder deeper.

He wondered of what his parents would think. Would they be proud for him for defeating the, so-called, evil wizard, or would they think of him as he thought of himself, a killer?

What was so evil about this man he has murdered? What right had it been of his to murder him, another human… no, he reminded himself, he was less then a human being and that was why he had killed him. But maybe he was right, maybe there is only power. He himself had seen how quickly someone's love could turn to hate, trust to betrayal.

This was the strangest feeling. All his ideals; all his thoughts seemed to have new meaning to it. Was it because he would never have the chance to think of them again, never have a chance to rewind, talk, walk, listen to the simple things that had brought him joy in life?

When a stab of pain had him dragging in a weak gasp his thoughts turned to more faces in his mind. Remus had always been there for him when he could, taught him things he could not have learned anywhere else. But like Sirius, Remus had always, deep down, seen him as his fathers' son, or the boy-who-lived, just like everyone else.

He grieved, for he would never see him or anyone else ever again, but he could not say he would thank any of them if he had the chance. He looked over at the dead body not ten feet away. What had they all taught him?

They had taught him to be a killer.

The boy was so deep in thought; he didn't hear the rustling of the leaves behind him.

There was only one person he would thank if given the chance, and he was also the one person he would apologize to, even if it were for something he didn't do. Despite all the man's hatred toward him from the moment he first set eyes upon him, he had never treated him like he was the boy-who-lived, like some kind of redeemer. He also judged him by his father but in a different way. He had truthfully learned more from him than he had from any of the other person he knew, and what he wouldn't give for one of his pain reliving potions right now.

He was being shaken, and slowly he opened his eyes despite his body's protest, only to see the face of his thoughts.

"Potter?" the dark man stammered out looking at the limp body that lay across from the boy. "Did you…" the boy only nodded faintly.

Snape, looking at the boys state, forgot the lifeless body across from them and started rushed around searching for a healing potion of any kind in his robe. That damn fool Dumbledore had been wrong to hold off the search for the boy. Did the man think Voldemort was the kind of person who goes around waiting for something else when an opportunity came around? The monster was used to jump form body to body to survive, so he would naturally jump at any opportunity that is offered to kill his biggest adversary.

The boy suddenly realized, with hope, that he would not die alone, and felt a peaceful calm beckoning him to close his eyes for the last time, but since he had the chance to do one last thing he wanted, something he was not forced to do, he was not going to let it slip.

Snape pulled the potion out and uncorked it, honestly not thinking it would do the boy any good, but he had to try. "Drink this," he lifted the vile to the pail dead lips but the boy shook his head looked at him and mumbled in a soft, raspy, struggling whisper. "I'm sorry for what my father did," his weak voice caused most of his words to drowned out by rustling leaves as the wind swayed. But the boy griped the dark man's robe and his very last words were heard, "thank you."

The boy felt peaceful and complete so when his eyes begged to close this time, he let them. The words that rang in his head, even if it was from the hated Dumbledore, seemed to fit. "Death is but the next great adventure," and he knew no more.

Snape sat in shock. The boy was dying and he had apologized for something, that Sanpe now knew, was not the boy's fault. With that came the realization to him, that the boy was not his father. Though, Snape had never shown the boy anything but, unjust dislike to the boy he had thanked him.

Snapping out of his trance he noticed that the boy was no longer gasping for air, and his eyes had closed. He reached out and gabbed on to the boy's torn robe and shook him as if it would bring him back. "Wake up, Potter! Damn you! You can't do this," but he already had, he realized. The man let one solitary tear rolled down his face to represent all he was feeling for the boy. Joy; for what the boy had achieved, hate; for the past, and finally sadness; for what he had just come to realize. Bowing his head as if in prayer the man hoped against hope that the boy would hear his words of passage. "I don't think you were able to see it, but you saved more than you know tonight. Maybe you were just stupid like I thought, a person seeking attention… or maybe…just maybe Harry… you really did care about what would happen to the people you try to save and really were a hero."


End file.
